poem 84

gentle does his hart beat

though blind to each rhythm.

he quests through london rain 

to a scene, knowing there 

to meet, shadows old and deep

and in this room crooked,

invisible, a flesh made crown. 

is laid unknowing, on all whose heads 

talk of what is outside.

but it's invisible weight is felt 

making all standing to bow

for of course it's designed that way                     

And your shelter built by many hands               

is coldly blown away.

leaving naked all your ways 

and still that rain torrent falls,

regardless of your flesh freezing 

and so corrodes the shape  

that took generations to make, 

for now this bow, brings your brow 

to lay upon greeting ground. 

there never to lift again 

and still this invisible flesh made crown

does not concede 

for now it's a matter of a human

judge, black and dressed 

in shambolic dog collar             

with invisible friend whispering  

i will be your guilt, 

easing then to condemn 

with the same breath, for now 

i choose what's in store for you,            

did he pay his way?.  

hummm shall it be heaven or hell? 

as your family sits about, waiting

upon this new despair, not knowing.

all this will soon repeat again,

for the invisible flesh made crown 

must never end your days, 

of desperate pain, for its golden reign.